


Leaving Marks

by Quakey (Quak3y)



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/pseuds/Quakey
Summary: Put on the spandex.  Go fight crime.  (Or merc people for money.  Whatever makes you happy.)  Finish your day.  Take off the spandex.  Be yourself....or not.
Relationships: Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Leaving Marks

**Author's Note:**

> This is Cable & Deadpool time period comics cablepool, if that's not clear from context.

To most of the cape and cowl and powers crowd, he thinks as he's stepping into his suit, this is like getting dressed for work. Like a suit and tie, or one of Irene’s power suits, or, for some lucky or maybe lazy bastards who didn't want to go so fancy, business casual.

Put on the spandex. Go fight crime. (Or merc people for money. Whatever makes you happy.) Finish your day. Take off the spandex. Re-emerge your bright, cheerful--no, who was he kidding, this was comics--re-emerge your angst-ridden, tragic self. But yourself. True to you.

Except if you’re him. Then you’re _you_ as long as the suit is on, a better you, the you everyone’s willing to look at. Take off the suit and suddenly you’re someone else.

The suit slides over his shoulders, arms, legs, gripping and clinging like a second skin, and seriously, what idiot artist first decided form-fitting was the right choice for this line of work? Probably a guy, for sure, because have you seen Psylocke's costume? Wow. But in this case .... it works.

It works because now when he's looking down, he doesn't see his skin. He sees Deadpool red and black, spandex and leather, aside from his hands, because he hasn't put the gloves on yet. Those come later. Right now he starts strapping in, adding the thigh holster, then the belt, then the weapons harness, buckling the collar, each leather and metal accessory tightening into place with a satisfying weight, something to hold him together.

The forearm guards are next, firm and snug, because he's learned over the years that having a hand cut off is a serious inconvenience. Lose a hand, lose a sword or a gun, maybe lose a fight. And coming back from dying is such a bitch.

Speaking of swords and guns, they're next. He checks the guns, confirms they're fully loaded, safeties on, slips each into its holster. Swords slide into the sheathes on his back.

Then come the boots, shoving his feet into them and lacing them up, shin guards in place too. He double-checks the Ka-Bar in its sheath on his calf, confirms it's just as sharp as it ought to be.

And now the gloves finally go on, and it's a relief to see the mottled backs of his hands disappear, hands that look like a 100 year-old guy with the worst liver spots ever, if those liver spots sometimes cracked and bled. Yep, that's him. Or was, until he hides them in red, stops having to think about them.

Which leaves only the mask.

Straightening, he catches sight of himself in a window reflection. It's brighter outside than inside his dingy apartment where he’s dressing with the lights off, making the dirty window act like a crappy mirror. He doesn't really need a lot of light to put on the same outfit every time there's a job. No mirrors here because, hello, Deadpool here, hates the sight of his own face, haven't you heard? But the bit of window is reflecting his face back at him, letting him see a half-there, slightly wavy image of himself superimposed on the world outside.

He slides a hand over his chest, watches the reflection. He's carefully not looking at his face right now. But the hand, the chest ... those look good. Those aren't just a suit he puts on. They're a person. They're _him_.

What's underneath, it's him too, but not in the same way. It’s a _him_ that doesn’t feel as right, that makes him twitchy and unhappy when people look at it, see it. But this? The suit? This he can show to the world, a second skin, a second identity. Deadpool. Merc with the Mouth. Red and black and bad all over. _This is who he is,_ way more than he's Wade Wilson anymore. Wade Wilson just hides in his dark little apartment with only the light of the TV, because when the light bulb went out in the ceiling fixture, he'd never bothered replacing it. If he does go out, it’s to get takeout and he hides his face in the collar of his jacket, under the brim of a ballcap. But when Deadpool goes out, he lets everyone _see_. If they're ogling his ass, great. Best ass in spandex, right?

He turns a little, cranes his neck, trying to confirm that's still true. Nate says it often enough, but Nate is one thousand percent _biased_ and also _out of his mind_ , because he also says things about liking the skin underneath the suit, so, yeah, clearly nuts. And coming from him, that's saying something.

But he decides he _does_ still look good. He feels a little bit of pride thinking it. His fans think he’s hot, even if he can't take the suit off (for anyone but Nate) without feeling like utter shit, and even with Nate there's that nervousness, the self-consciousness that Nate never takes advantage of, never shuts him down for, never tells him to stop, never feeds.

He swallows, remembering things. Nate pinning both his hands to the wall, using just his mouth to lick at the line of throat or pec or bicep right through the spandex, Nate growling he's a damn fine sight either way, Nate _biting_ at his neck right through the suit.

He tilts his head, wishing for a second that he could show marks. Nate hasn't used him as a chew toy in a couple days, hasn't sucked a mark purple and stark on his skin. If hickeys and bruises stuck around for more than a few seconds, he’d be able to see a couple, even if they were fading. He tilts his head, looks at himself in the window, leather-covered fingers tracing the spot he remembers Nate working on last time, biting first through the mask and then yanking it off to get to actual (gross, textured) skin. Or course it just looks like all the rest of his neck, mottled and scarred, nothing interesting to see. So Wade grabs the mask and pulls it on, tucks the neck of it into the suit collar. Finally feels right.

Then he looks again and does a bit of a double-take. Squints at his faint reflection. It’s hard to see but there's a mark on the mask, there on the neck. A little bit of fraying of the spandex. He tentatively traces it, maps the edge and breadth of it with his gloved finger. Same spot. It's the same spot Nate had worked on, marked up, just a little bit.

Obviously he knows that the suit isn't invincible, he's had to replace enough cut up, shot up, blown up suits that he obviously knows that, it's only the meat-sack inside that's indestructible, but still ... he's was just thinking how he’s more the suit than he is himself. And Nate marked up the suit. Nate left a mark. Nate marked _him_ up. A mark on the unmarkable. 

He’s going to go out tonight. He’s going to be walk around, skulk around, kill people around, with that little worn spot there, just like some normal dude with a hickey peeking out of his shirt collar. Something to say, hey, this guy got some action, this guy had someone so hot for him that they sucked a mark on his skin.

He's suddenly so turned on that he considers going back and undoing all those straps and belts and business just so he can shove a hand down his pants, have one off the wrist, nice and quick. But he's also got work, places to go, people to kill, and a slight stiffy outlined in the spandex is probably only going to distract the goons so he can lop their heads off quicker so he can be done with the job and go find Nate and beg him to repeat the performance. Nate's a horny enough bastard that he'll approve of this latest kink, or at least be willing to humor it if it gets him enthusiastically laid.

Put on the spandex. Go merc people for money. Finish your day. And most definitely _don't_ take off the spandex. He has plans for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my drafts folder, file titled SUIT KINK 3, which should tell you something about how often I go down a mental rabbit hole about the suit. xD I hope you enjoyed this drabble.


End file.
